


The Gala

by fortunata13



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-05-07 20:00:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14678394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortunata13/pseuds/fortunata13
Summary: Clarke Griffin is mourning the loss of her beloved father.





	1. The Gala

The Charity Gala at the Metropolitan Museum of Art is something she’s been looking forward to for months, she’s even participated in the decision making process. It’s in honor of her late father whom she adored, and because it’s in his honor, Clarke wants it to be perfect, no, she needs it to be perfect. She needs it to be perfect because he believed in her and she wants the gala to be worthy of his memory. She shrugs away the disappointment she feels when her fiancé calls her to tell her he isn’t going to be able to make it back from Hong Kong in time to attend; the business deal he’s brokering is too important but he promises he’ll make it up to her.

Clarke doesn’t say anything for several seconds, she just closes her eyes for a moment before telling him to do what he needs to do, and she hangs up the phone. It hurts but in the end this isn’t about Finn, it’s about her dad. Her mother, as usual, has already cornered the market on making things about her; Clarke isn’t about to join her in doing so. She just continues focusing her energy on making this a great night, a night in which everyone will be reminded of all his accomplishments, of his generosity, of what a great man he was.

 

On the night of the event, all eyes are on her. The gown she’s wearing is lovely and elegant and those around her all comment that on this night, she most certainly lives up to her nickname. “You look beautiful, Princess,” Bellamy tells her, and it’s all she can do to suppress an eye roll. She despises the moniker but her friends still insist on using it. She’s certain she’ll hear it throughout the entire evening, especially since she knows that Raven and Octavia, along with Jasper and the rest of her friends will make a point of using it often. Tonight, she will not let it bother her, nor will she give a speech as her mother has insisted on doing; Clarke will quietly look around at all of the people who trudged through the snow wearing their tuxedos and gowns in honor of Jake Griffin and it will be a good night.

By ten o’clock the gala is in full swing. Champagne flows freely and all of those in attendance are reminiscing about Jake Griffin. Everyone seems to have a favorite story about him; it warms Clarke’s heart but it also breaks her heart. “You weren’t old, dad,” she whispers, to him. “You weren’t old.” 

Not willing to shed tears in front of the partygoers, she walks into the powder room and locks the door. She stays there for several minutes, doing her best to keep it together, to be courageous and strong like he had taught her to be. When she’s finally able to keep the tears at bay, she starts toward the door, but she stops when she hears voices, angry voices. It’s two men, she decides, or maybe three. She holds her breath for what feels like a long time and the shouting between the men stops. She waits for what she feels is a prudent amount of time before stepping out into the hallway; that’s when the gunshots ring and she releases a loud gasp. The man holding the gun turns around and sees her standing there, looking directly at him, and then he looks down at the two bodies on the floor. Clarke can see it on his face — she’s about to join the two men whom she’s fairly certain are already dead. Her mouth is slightly open and she’s backing away from him. “Bad timing,” he grits between his teeth, with his finger about to squeeze the trigger. But Clarke knows this isn’t her night to die; she flings a nearby vase at him and pulls on the fire alarm, slowing down her assailant just enough for one of the security guards to run to her aid. The man with the gun, looks back at her over his shoulder and takes a shot at her but he hits the guard instead. By then there are police officers everywhere but her assailant is nowhere to be found.

Several officers, and one whose uniform indicates he’s a captain, takes her into one of the rooms reserved for the security personnel. Her hands are shaking but she keeps her composure. They are asking her questions, so many questions; she’s overwhelmed by all of the voices around her. And for once, she’s glad to see her mother entering the room — with her lawyer in tow — her father’s best friend, the man who her mother started sleeping with six months after her dad died. “My client has just been through a traumatic experience, she’s in no condition to answer these questions. I’ll have one of several judges currently attending this function file an injunction if you don’t desist.” 

“No,” Clarke says, “I just need to have a drink of water.” An officer promptly hands her a glass; she swallows it in a single gulp and takes a deep breath.”

“Clarke, you don’t have to do this,” her mother says.

“Yes I do,” she says, looking directly at her mother. “This night was for dad.”

Her mother has seen that steely look in her eyes thousands of times; she’s never once succeeded at changing her daughter’s mind when she has that look.

“Can I just talk to one person?” she asks the officers. “This,” she says, gesturing with her hands, “is too much for me right now.”

The man wearing the captain’s uniform picks up the phone and says, “Get Detective Woodward here ASAP.”

The detective arrives within minutes, and promptly clears the room. “Ms. Griffin, I’m Detective Woodward, I’m going to be handling this case.” The detective’s voice is calming and soothing, and Clarke is grateful for that voice, because she can’t handle anymore noise right now. “I need to ask you some questions while the events of the evening are still fresh in your mind. If you prefer, we can do this back at the station. I just want you to feel safe and comfortable, which I realize isn’t easy under the circumstances.”

“Trust me, it’s fresh,” she says, and the detective’s eyes soften.

“For as best as you can, walk me through your evening,” Woodward says.

“Well, I arrived at seven to make certain the waitstaff had everything they needed. The gala was in honor of my late father so I wanted everything to go smoothly, and it did until I heard male voices arguing.”

“And where were you when you heard them arguing?” the detective asks, jotting down Clarke’s responses in a notepad.

Clarke feels a little embarrassed by the question. “I was in the restroom — crying. I adored my dad. I did my best to be strong but at one point I broke down.” The detective swallows and nods.

“It’s understandable,” the detective says, “losing a loved one is never easy. Were you able to hear what they were saying?” 

“One of them sounded angry but there was music in the background so I couldn’t make out the words.” Clarke sighs, and covers her eyes with her hands.

“Are you all right, Ms. Griffin?” The detective’s hand goes to Clarke’s shoulder and it feels like it belongs there, keeping Clarke steady and calm.

Clarke nods.

“I know this is a long shot considering the circumstances, but do you think you would be able to describe your assailant?”

Clarke looks up with a sad smirk on her face. “Can I have a pencil and a sheet of paper, please?”

“Of course.” Within minutes Clarke produces a sketch that the detective suspects would look right at home hanging in the walls of the museum.

“That’s,” the detective says, wide-eyed, with parted lips, “impressive. 

“Much to my mother’s chagrin, I’m an artist,” Clarke says with a shrug.

“Yeah, I got that,” the detective says. “Please give me a few minutes. I’m going to send your sketch to the station, and run it through our database.”

When the detective returns, Clarke is on her cell phone. “Raven, I’m fine. Are you guys okay? Good, tell everyone I’m all right.” She looks up at the detective who is sitting across from Clarke waiting for her to finish her call. “I have to go,” Clarke says,” the detective is waiting for me. I love you guys, too,” she says to the various people on the other end of the phone. The detective gazes at Clarke for several seconds but doesn’t say a word; Clarke knows it must be bad. 

“You were at the wrong place at the wrong time, Ms. Griffin.”

“Call me Clarke, please. Ms. Griffin sounds like some sort of schoolmarm.”

The detective gives her a small smile. “I think Clarke Griffin has a nice ring to it; call me Lexa,” the detective says, hoping it will make Clarke feel more at ease.

“Nice to meet you, Lexa. Now then, should I be worried?” She furrows her brow and waits for a response.

Lexa purses her lips searching for the right words, but there are no right words for the situation Clarke is in. “Give me a few minutes, Clarke, I have to make a couple of calls.” Clarke shrugs her shoulders and waits. 

“Come on, I’m taking you home,” the detective tells Clarke when she walks back into the room. She welcomes the news but her instincts tell her there’s something Lexa isn’t telling her.

Clarke’s home turns out to be prime real estate on the Upper East Side, overlooking the park. As they walk into the building, Lexa keeps one hand on her gun and the other on the small of Clarke’s back. When they reach Clarke’s floor, two officers are already standing in the hallway and two other officers are in the foyer. “Is it just me, or is this a bit much?” Clarke asks, looking up at Lexa.

Lexa doesn’t answer, instead she introduces Clarke to the officers. “Ms. Griffin, meet Officers Henson and Jones, they’ll stand guard in the hallway from 6:00PM to 12:00AM, Officers Reese is my cousin and best friend so I can assure you that he and Paterson will keep you safe. They will take over from 12:01AM to 6:00AM. The building’s security staff has already been informed that they are to be on high alert. No one, the detective says emphatically to the officers, “has access to Ms. Griffin’s floor without an ID.” The officers acknowledge the detective’s orders with a nod, and move to their assigned post.

Lexa walks through the apartment checking all the windows, doors, and closets. She hesitates for a moment when she finds herself staring at a closet filled with men’s clothing, but she quickly recovers. “Will your husband be coming home tonight?” Lexa asks.

“Fiancé,” she corrects her, “and no, he’s in Hong Kong, being a captain of industry or whatever.” The bitter tone in which she says it doesn’t escape Lexa. She’s a detective, connecting the dots is what she does. Clarke’s fiancé had gone on a business trip instead of attending the gala in her father’s honor. Lexa feels a surge of anger at the realization but quickly reminds herself that it’s none of her business. Still, she couldn’t help but mutter the word douchebag under her breath. Clarke’s fiancé wasn’t capable of protecting her heart but Lexa was sure as hell going to protect her life.

“Anya, meet Clarke Griffen, you are going to be shadowing her until we find her would-be assailants.

Anya pursed her lips, and said, Roger that.

As if on cue, Clarke’s phone rings. She sighs when she looks at the caller ID. “Finn, I can’t talk right now. My mother had no business calling you. No,” she says. “We’ll talk when you get back.” She hangs up the phone without saying goodbye. She sees a mixture of sadness and anger is Clarke’s eyes; Lexa feels like punching this Finn character.

Lexa doesn’t say anything, she just goes out to the balcony. When she comes back inside, she pulls out a high-powered riffle from her bag and looks through the scope. “Clarke, I need you to stay away from the balcony, I want you nowhere near it.” she says, still looking through the scope.

Clarke follows Lexa’s line of sight. “Yeah, I guess going out for fresh air would be a bad idea,” she says, knowing she’d be an easy target.

Lexa puts down the riffle and thinks for a moment, debating weather or not what she’s about to say is a good idea. This wasn’t the plan, but Lexa makes a decision. “I’m going to stay with you tonight.”

Clarke smirks. “No complaints here. It’s not everyday that I get to sleep with a detective that’s hotter than most supermodels.” Lexa tips her head but doesn’t say anything — her blushing cheeks, however, speak volumes. “Wow, that was so inappropriate of me,” Clarke says with a grin on her face. “But in my defense,” she says, “my stress response is flirting, weird, I know.” The three glasses of wine she’d drank earlier to calm herself, were probably the cause of her loose tongue; she tells the detective as much.

Lexa chuckles and shakes her head. “Which of these is your bedroom?” Lexa asks.

“Now we’re talking,” Clarke say. “Yikes, I did it again, didn’t I?”

“You, Clarke Griffin, are quite a handful,” Lexa says, doing her best to give Clarke a stern look. “I need you to take this seriously. I didn’t want to discuss this with you tonight but I think maybe it’s good idea to get it out of the way.” She looks into Clarke’s eyes, and says, “What you witnessed tonight was a professional hit, Clarke, not some random crime. Had you not walked out of the restroom when you did, the shooter would have left the scene of the crime without a care in the world, but now,” she says, pausing for several seconds, “he needs to clean up. You saw his face, that makes you a liability.”

“So you’re saying that this guy may try to kill me?” she asks, wrapping her arms around her middle.

Lexa guides Clarke to the sofa and sits beside her. “He’s going to try, but I’m going to stop him. I need you to trust me, Clarke. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you. Now go to bed, I’ll be right outside your door, I promise I won’t leave you.”

Clarke leans in and kisses her on the cheek; Lexa blushes furiously. “Are all NYPD detectives as sweet as you are?”

“Stress response, again?” Lexa asks, still feeling the ghost of Clarke’s kiss on her cheek.

“No, an honest question,” she says, disappearing into the bedroom before Lexa can say anything. Lexa takes off her jacket and positions a chair in such a way, that she can easily look into every room but she focuses on Clarke’s room, watching her sleep through the slightly ajar bedroom door. At around four in the morning, Lexa hears Clarke awaken with a start; she rushes into the bedroom an kneels beside the bed. “It’s okay,” she says, “you’re safe. Go back to sleep.”

“Lexa,” Clarke says, a few hours later, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, squinting at the impossibly bright sunlight that now filters into her bedroom. “You were up all night?” Lexa nods in response. Clarke sits up on the bed taking in the sight of Lexa without her jacket on, leaning forward to trace her fingers over the tribal tattoo on Lexa’s back, which is instantly covered with goose bumps at the contact. Clarke sighs. “Jeez,” she says, “hotness overload before I’m even fully awake. I could really get used to this.”

Lexa shakes her head. “You’re incorrigible.” She picks up her jacket and looks around the apartment for a couple of minutes. “I’ll see you later.”

Clarke immediately jumps out of bed. “Where’re you going?” she asks, not realizing she’s in her panties and a tiny tank top that barely covers her navel. Lexa, however, definitely notices, and by the look on her face, she’s enjoying the view.

“Home,” Lexa says, “I have to shower and change before going to the precinct. Our killer isn’t going to catch himself.” Clarke’s eyebrows are tightly kneaded. “My guys are right outside the door,” she says in an effort to reassure her. Lexa jots down her cell phone number and hands it Clarke. “If you can’t reach me at the precinct, call my cell.”

Clarke wraps her arms around her and kisses her on the cheek again. “Thank you for being so good to me.”

“You just like kissing me,” Lexa teases with a smile on her face as she walks out the door. Having that sort of exchange while on the job is uncharted territory for Lexa, but she reasons that Clarke is vulnerable on many levels right now, and she need to feel close to someone. Lexa is willing to be that someone. When Clarke realizes that the entire exchanged occurred while she was still in her underwear, her palm meets her forehead.

After Lexa is relieved by an officer, Clarke decides to put her time in captivity to good use. She pulls out her easel from the closet with the intention of touching up a painting that’s almost finished, and just as she’s about to set it up on the balcony, she remembers Lexa’s admonishment about staying away from the balcony. She feels a tinge of annoyance for a second, but then she smiles at the mere thought of Lexa. She chuckles at this ridiculously intense crush she’s developed on Lexa, and although she knows it’s harmless, Finn crosses her mind for a moment and she feels a twinge of guilt. “Might as well put her on paper,” she says to herself, in an effort to get Lexa out of her system.

By the time she hears Lexa’s talking to the officers on the other side of the door, she’s long since finished a drawing she plans on presenting to Lexa for being so kind to her. “Hey,” she says, as she opens the door. “How was your day?”

“Good, thanks to your amazing sketch, we’re close to ID-ing our guy, and I took the liberty of picking up dinner. I hope that wasn’t presumptuous of me.” Lexa’s cheeks, once again are betraying her, but Clarke is kind enough to not mention it.

“You’re a life saver, I’m starving.” She watch as Lexa places the bags on the kitchen counter, and opens the cupboards.

“Here, I’ll take care of it,” Clarke says, “you must be exhausted so you don’t have to babysit me tonight. I’ll be fine. Don’t get me wrong, I love having you here, I just don’t want you to have to alter your life because of me. I’m sure someone is waiting for you at home.”

“You’re right, someone is waiting for me.” The smile on Clarke’s face fades a bit. “My cat, although she’s quite self-sufficient.”

Clarke grins. “Oh please don’t tell me that the hotness that is you is still on the market. I’m not buying that for a second, Woodward.”

“You really are a flirt,” Lexa says shaking her head, “and don’t give me that stress response nonsense. I’ve totally got your number, Griffin.”

“You’re welcome to dial it any time, in fact, you can put it on speed dial.”

“Incorrigible,” Lexa says, shaking her head again. “Lets eat before the food get cold.”

Dinner involves a lot of teasing and laughter, but all the while, Lexa’s eyes scan the apartment. Clarke notices that she’s doing it and tries to decide whether or not she should mention it. In the end, she asks, “Are you always this intense?”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No, not at all,” Clarke says, “It’s pretty sexy, as are all things Lexa.”

Lexa rolls her eye. “Definitely incorrigible.” Clarke laughs and gives her a gentle shove.

“Look,” Clarke says putting down her fork down for a moment with a smirk on her face, “I’ve watched plenty of movies, detectives are supposed to be middle aged men with horrible ties, and bad combovers, so sue me if I’m a bit thrown off by you.”

Lexa laughs. “Yeah, I get that a lot.” They eat the rest of their dinner in a comfortable silence. Clarke looks up at Lexa from time to time trying to discern what she’s thinking, but decides Lexa could probably have a very successful career as a poker player; she gives absolutely nothing away.

Clarke starts to pick up the dishes, but Lexa gently takes hold of her wrist caressing it with her thumb for a second, and shaking her head no. The feel of Lexa’s fingers around her wrist reminds Clarke that Finn has been away for almost six weeks, and even before he’d left, they’d been fighting so she can’t even remember the last time someone, anyone has touched her in a way that felt remotely intimate. She feels her body responding to Lexa’s touch and she swallows hard, taking a step away from Lexa. Flirting is one thing but she’d never forgive herself if she were to cross that line. All the while, she can see Lexa’s breathing quicken, and she’s grateful when the detective finally turns around and walks into the kitchen placing the dishes in the sink. Lexa carefully washes each plate as if it were a hand grenade. Clarke smirks, realizing that Lexa is even more flustered than she is. 

“Did you always want to have a career in law enforcement?” Clarke asks after Lexa walks back into the living room. It’s her best effort at shifting the tension in the room. “Was it like your childhood dream?”

“No, it wasn’t,” Lexa says, still struggling to regain her composure. “When I was kid, I wanted to be an architect. I loved the idea of building things, for people filling spaces that I conjured up in my imagination. Yeah, I guess that was my dream.”

“And what changed your mind?” Clarke asks. “You strike me as a very determined person, so I can’t quite picture you giving up on your dream.”

Lexa walks over to the window, before answering. “When I was sixteen-years-old, someone I loved dearly was the victim of an unspeakably violent crime. I was lost in my own grief for a while, but then I realized that I didn’t want anyone to feel what I felt when I lost her so I decided to save people.”

“I guess both our lives were affected by the loss of a loved one. Losing my dad was devastating. He was my hero and my best friend. When I was kid I tried so hard please my mother — for my dad’s sake, mostly but eventually I gave up trying. She wanted a little mini-me to follow in her footsteps so I actually applied to med school to make her happy — and me miserable. The last time I spoke to my dad it was as if he knew our time together was almost over. He called me into the den and told me that I had to have the courage to be my own person, to follow my dream. He died two day later. I quit med school decided to follow my passion.”

Lexa’s entire demeanor changes when she sees tears streaking Clarke’s cheeks. “Hey,” she says, pulling Clarke into her arms. “I’m here, okay?” She pulls Clarke even closer and kisses her temple, holding her there for a long moment, marveling at how perfectly Clarke fits in her arms, and before she even realizes it’s happening she’s kissing Clarke. The kiss is so soft and gentle that Clarke’s heart feels like it’ll shatter to pieces if their lips ever part but Lexa quickly pulls away.

“I shouldn’t of done that,” she says, rising to her feet and backing away from Clarke. “I’m here to protect you, Clarke. If I think with my heart, and not with my head, you could end up dead. I can let that happen.” She’s holding her head in her hands, unable to meet Clarke’s gaze. This has never happened to Lexa before. She’s always been able to keep her emotions in check, but Clarke topples all her defenses. 

“Lexa, wait,” Clarke says, “This is totally on me. I’ve been hitting on you constantly.”

“Maybe you’d be better off with another detective,” Lexa says, looking down at her boots.

“I feel safe with you,” Clarke says, “I can be a grownup, I really can. Just don’t leave me, please. I consider you a friend, Lexa.”

Lexa can’t bear that pleading look in Clarke eyes a moment longer. “You don’t have to change anything about yourself; I’m the one who has to practice better lip-management,” Lexa says, gazing at Clarke in the hopes of seeing a smile on her face, and seconds later, there it is. Clarke doesn’t mention that she feels as if her heart is doing somersaults in her chest. And Lexa doesn’t tell Clarke that she can’t remember the last time she was even remotely attracted enough to someone to consider kissing them.

“Oh,” Clarke says, suddenly jumping to her feet. She’s grinning like a five-year-old on Christmas morning. “I have something for you; hopefully you won’t hate it, but you have to close your eyes,” she says emphatically.

“If my eyes are closed, I can’t see it.”

“Ha, ha, very funny. I’ll tell you when you can open them.” She takes a deep breath, and says, “Okay, you can open your eyes now.”

Lexa’s eyes open wide and she looks over at Clarke. “You drew this?” she asks.

Clarke looks up at the ceiling and shakes her head. “No, I outsourced it to some guy in India,” she says, giving Lexa a shove. “Of course, I drew it, you big dork. It’s my way of thanking you for being, well, you.”

Lexa stares at the drawing, and then she turns her attention to Clarke. “It’s beautiful,” Lexa says. “This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me, and you’re the most talented person I’ve ever met in person.” She gives Clarke a hug, making sure to practice lip-management.

Lexa’s phone rings. “I’m on my way,” she says, “I want the building sealed off, no one get in until I say the word.” She turns to face Clarke, and says, “We’ve got eyes on our guy, Clarke, building security is on full alert and I have ten plain clothed officer around the perimeter, along with the rest of my guys. Stay away from the balcony,” she says, gripping Clarke’s upper arms.

Clarke wraps her arms around her as soon as Lexa releases her grip, and she pull her into a kiss. Lexa grins. “Poor lip-management, Griffin, I may have to write you up.”

“Be safe,” Clarke says, as Lexa walks out the door and another detective takes her place.

Clarke’s phone rings, and she rolls her eyes when she sees the caller ID. “Finn, this isn’t a good time. The police just sealed off the building. Maybe if you would have told me you were flying in today, I could have warned you.”

“I flew back to protect you, Princess,” he says with a sappy look on his face. “Did you think I’d leave my girl at the mercy of the NYPD?”

“Finn, I can’t do this right now. People are risking their lives to keep me safe.”

“Don’t worry Princess, I’m on my way.”

Clarke sighs. The last thing she needs is Finn trying to play hero. She paces around the apartment incessantly, hoping against hope that Lexa will call her. The sun has already set, and she still hasn’t heard a word from her. “No news is good news,” she tells herself over and over like a mantra.

“Detective Woodward is a pro, Ms. Griffin, everything is going to be fine.” She nods and give’s him a small smile.

“Our guy’s making is his move,” Lexa says over her police radio. “I want five of you on the on the roof — east side of the building. If you have a clean shot take it. This guy is armed and dangerous. We’re dealing with a professional killer,” she says. Lexa is on the rooftop of the building across the street; from that vantage point, she can see the perp’s every move and she’s ready to take the shot herself if need be, but them she get that sensation in her gut that she’s learned to trust — the hard way. She looks through the scope of her riffle again, this time peering into Clarke’s apartment; even from that distance she can tell that there’s been some sort of struggle, and the sliding glass door that leads to the balcony is shattered, “Clarke,” she says and she takes off running at full speed. She’s got her riffle in one hand and her police radio in her back pocket. Her coworker’s claim that she could easily be a world class sprinter if she wanted to, proves to be true. She manages to reach Clarke’s apartment in record speed.

The moment she reaches the apartment her eyes search for Clarke, and when she spots her, she releases a sigh of relief and wraps her arms around her. Clarke clings to her for dear life. “I thought something horrible happened to you,” Lexa says, resting her forehead on Clarke’s.

It takes Lexa a few seconds to assess the situation. She looks over at the shattered glass door, and then at the man sprawled on the floor, struggling to rise to his feet. “Get your fucking hands off me,” he says, giving Lexa a hard shove.

“Oh, you are so going to regret doing that,” Lexa says in what sound every bit like a snarl. With a slight tip of Lexa’s head, one of the officers slaps a pair of hand coughs on him and read’s him his right.

“What the hell do you think your doing?” Finn says, trying to elbow his way out of the officer’s grip. “Do you even know who I am? When my lawyers get’s through with you you’ll be lucky to get a job as a crossing guard. Oh, and when the fuck do I get to make my one phone call?” he demands.

“Lexa please,” Clarke says, “you can’t arrest Finn.” She’s looking up at Lexa with those big blue eyes and gripping her upper arm. Lexa rolls her eyes, realizing that it’s Clarke’s douchebag fiancé. 

“The hell I can’t? She says, in a low menacing tone. “Had it not been for this idiot, your life wouldn’t be in danger right now. I had a clean shot, Clarke. This whole thing would have been over, you’d be save.” Lexa walks away, and addresses one of her officers. “How the hell did he even get in here.”

“One of the neighbors left his door unlocked. This moron, climbed into Ms. Griffin’s balcony and smashed the glass door.” 

“Good,” Lexa says, glaring at Finn, “add breaking and entering to the charges.” 

With two officers flanking him, Finn gets dragged out of the building and placed in a patrol car. “Lexa please, Finn did something stupid, I know, but he did it for me, to protect me.”

“He could have gotten you killed,” Lexa says, clenching her fists at her side.

“You can’t just arrest everyone who makes a stupid decision. He’s not a criminal for god’s sake.”

Lexa purses her lips and nods. “So in your opinion, assaulting an officer, resisting arrest, obstruction of justice, and breaking and entering aren’t crimes?” She allows her arms to hang at her sides waiting for Clarke to say something, but really, what can she say — aside from making excuses for her fiancé.

“Finn may have his faults but what you’re doing is excessive. I though we were friends, Lexa.” Lexa can’t even look at her after the words leave her lips. Clarke regrets saying them but she knows she can’t take them back, not after being confronted with the heart breaking look on Lexa’s face.

Making excuses for Finn’s erratic behavior, and lies had long since become a habit. She’s even managed to rationalize Finn’s infidelities, doing her best to convince herself that once they got married everything would work out. In truth, Clarke isn’t even sure if she’s still in love him but she doesn’t know what would become of Finn if she were to walk away from him.

Lexa disappears into the hallway and when she returns, she say, “Goodbye Clarke, Detective Cooper is taking over your case.” With that, Lexa was gone, leaving her replacement awkwardly standing in Clarke’s living room.

Finn’s lawyers gets his charges reduced to what amounts to a slap on the wrist and three weeks after Lexa walked out of Clarke’s life, she receives a call from the police department informing her that there was a suspect in custody. Lexa was credited with collaring Clarke’s assailant. Clarke sighed; Lexa had never stopped trying to keep her safe. They didn’t see each other until the trial began, three months later. It was all Clarke could do to take her eyes off Lexa. She is still as impossibly beautiful as Clarke remembered. Clarke’s closest friends were all in attendance to offer their support — with the exception of Finn whom she had banned from the proceedings. Clarke couldn’t help but look at Lexa over her shoulder, giving Lexa a small smile. Lexa acknowledged her with a nod. 

“Hey, Casanova,” her friend Octavia says, “What’s with the forlorn stares at Lexa?”

“Shut up,” Clarke says, only to whip her head around, and ask, “You know her?”

“Yeah, she goes to my gym, and don’t even try to tell me that’s were your lazy ass met her.

“She’s the detective who worked my case. Are you two close?”

“Not really, I did’t even know she was a cop.”

“Detective,” Clarke corrects her with a bit too much zeal.

Octavia grins. “Hey Raven,” Octavia whispers to Raven, “Look who’s crushing on Lexa.”

“Who’s Lexa?” Raven asks.

Octavia rolls her eyes. “That girl from the gym. The one with the hair, and the eyes, and the banging body,” she says, gesturing wildly with her hands.

“Ah, yes, the goddess who has on many occasions led me to question my own sexuality.”

“Yep, that’s the one.” 

“Will you two put a lid on it, the trial’s about to begin,” Clarke says.

“What’d I miss?” Bellamy asked, taking a seat next to his younger sister Octavia.”

“Clarke want’s to bang Lexa from the gym,” she says matter factly.

“Can I watch?” he asks, earning himself a hard elbow to his ribs.

“You don’t even know her,” Clarke points out.

“Details,” he offers with a shrug.

“I hate every single one of you,” Clarke says.

“No you don’t, you’re just mad because I busted you crushing on Lexa.” 

“Where’s Finn?” Balmy asks Clarke. 

“I banned him from coming within ten miles of the courthouse.” 

“Smart move, he’d probably make an ass of himself again.”

Just as Clarke is about to say something, the Judge enters the courtroom and the trial begins. Both sides present their evidence and question the witnesses. By late afternoon, the jury deliberates. It takes them little over an hour to come to a unanimous guilty verdict. 

Clarke releases a sigh of relief, and heads out of the courtroom, only to find herself standing inches away from Lexa for the first time in months, and god, she look beautiful. For a moment, it feels as if time is standing still — mostly because Clarke’s friend are practically frozen in time, hanging on Lexa and Clarke’s every word. Clarke would love to smack every one of them on the back of their heads, but the place is crawling with cops, one of them being Lexa. 

“I’m glad this ordeal is finally over for you,” Lexa says.

“Thanks to you,” Clarke says, trying her best to convince herself that she can’t possibly be responsible for the sadness in Lexa’s eyes.

Lexa shakes her head. “My entire team moved heaven and earth to keep you safe.”

“And yet you were the one who brought him in. Thank you for that,” she says, leaning in and kissing Lexa on the cheek, lingering more than necessary.

Clarke’s friends don’t move a muscle until she rolls her eyes and loudly clears her throat, but even then, then they mostly run there fingers through their own hair — except for Lincoln who keeps his head shaven. 

Lexa pulls Clarke into an embrace, pressing her nose to Clarke’s hair for a second, and then she does that sexy slow-motion blinking thing that Clarke has practiced in front of her bathroom mirror at least a thousand times but for the life of her, she still can’t get it right. “Take care of yourself, Clarke,” Lexa says.

Clarke looks into Lexa’s eyes for a long moment and says, “I liked it better when you were taking care of me,” Clarke says with a sad smile on her face.

“So did I, Clarke, so did I.” And with that, Lexa walks out of the life for a second time.

“Holy shit,” Bellamy says, “that was like watching the death of Doctor fucking Zhivago — in slow motion —on repeat — for days. You bitches almost had me in tears. What with all the longing and despair.” 

“Preach,” Raven says, waving her arms in the air.

“Clarke, you’re a dumb ass. That girl’s in freaking in love with you,” Octavia tell her.

“You do know Finn and I are engaged, right?”

“Yeah, well, you can do better. Trust me, I know. The one thing you can count on Finn doing is letting you down, and ripping your heart out, and lets not forget the possibility of an STD.” They all know Raven is speaking out of experience. Finn had been Raven’s first love; it took her years to finally accept that Finn had never loved her.

Bellamy is chewing on his lower lip, clearly experiencing some sort of moral dilemma — either that or he’s severely constipated. “Maybe you do deserve better than Finn will ever give you,” he say, in what can only be describe as an extreme departure from his evangelical devotion to his bros-before-hos creed. 

Octavia narrows her eyes and grabs him by the collar. “Bellamy Blake,” she says, calling him by his full name as she always does when she thinks he’s hiding something from her.

He lifts his arms in surrender and takes a step back from his rather terrifying little sister. “I don’t know anything,” he says.

“Bell,” she says in that menacing tone that makes him feel as if he’s about to wet his pants. “Clarke is practically family. If you know something that can hurt Clarke and you don’t tell me, I swear I’ll never forgive you.”

“Octavia,” he whines, and soon cracks under his sister’s glare.

In the end, he shrugs and says, “I know Hong Kong isn’t in Thailand.”

Clarke looks up and shakes her head. “I’m such a fucking idiot,” she says. “He begged me to forgive him, when I found those pictures of him fucking that girl in Thailand. He swore it was a one time thing.”

“No, you’re not an idiot,” Raven says, putting her arms around Clarke’s shoulder. “You fell for his lies, just like I did.”

“Yeah, except you were smart enough to cut your losses. I wasted eight years of my life on him.”

Clarke sighs. “Guys, I need be alone for a while.” Here friends exchange concerned glances, but give her the space she needs. Clarke sits on one of the benches outside of the courtroom and after a few minutes, she feels an arm around her shoulder. She allows herself think that maybe it’s Lexa’s arm, but she recognizes her mother’s perfume and she slumps her shoulders.

“She’s very pretty,” Clarke’s mother says, and Clarke nods in agreement. She had been at the back of the courtroom the entire time. “Tell me about her,” she says, and Clarke looks up at her without a trace of anger on her face for the first time in years.

“She’s amazing,” Clarke says, “but I blew it. I’ll probably never see her again.”

Abby sighs. “When your father and I were around your age, we broke up for almost a year.”

“Why?” she asked, “You and Dad were inseparable.”

She thinks for almost a full minute before answering. “Because you and I are actually a lot alike.”

Clarke shoots her a skeptical look. “We lose sight of the forest for trees, and then we regret it. We don’t pick our battles very well, so we whine up hurting ourselves and the people we love.

“Your father, on the other hand, was masterful at it. That’t why our marriage lasted as long as it did. He focused on the big picture. Everything else is details, he’d say, and he was right. You and I aren’t very good at that, hence we’re constantly at each other’s throat.”

Clarke nods contemplatively and turn her body so that they are facing each other. “How could take up with someone else so soon after Dad died — and with his best friend, no less?” Clarke held back angry tears.

“Because I wanted to die,” she says honestly. “Your father was my life. I didn’t know how to live without him.” She paused for a long moment. “There are still days when I sit in front of the door waiting for him to come home.” Clarke’s head snaps up, realizing for the first time that she had been so caught up in her own anger, that she didn’t notice that her mother had been hanging by a thread, just as she had. For the first time, in years, Clarke hugs her mother and tells her she loves her.

Abby reaches for Clarke’s hand and pulls her to her feet. “Now let’s go find that girl of yours,” Abby says.

“What do you mean?” Clarke asks.

“I mean that now that that despicable boy is finally out of your life — thank god, by the way — you can tell that beautiful detective of yours how you feel about her.”

“I thought you loved Finn.” Clarke says, furrowing her brow. Abby’s disdain for Finn is definitely a surprise.

“Hardly,” Abby says, “but I love you. Your father and I had always agreed to support you and to allow you make your own mistakes. Now let’s go.”

“Mom, are you crazy? We can’t just show up at Lexa’s door and demand that she love me.”

“Sure we can,” Abby says,” practically dragging Clarke into the car.

“How do you even know where she lives?”

“I looked her up on Facebook.”

“You Facebook-stalked Lexa?” Clarke asks with a horrified look on her face. “That’s embarrassing and completely inappropriate.”

“Yeah well, that’s what mother’s do.”

“I’m not talking to you,” Clarke says, shifting her body so that she doesn’t have to look at her. After a few minutes Clarke asks, “Why did you pressure me so much about the med school thing? That didn’t feel very supportive,” she says, raising an accusatory eye brow.

Abby tips her head, waiting for the stoplight to change. “From the day I found out that I was carrying a little girl, I envisioned you and I in the hospital doing our rounds together. It was a hard dream to let go,” she admits. “You and I had absolutely nothing in common, Clarke. I just wanted to connect with you.” Clarke doesn’t say anything, she just leans over so that their shoulders are touching. Abby smiles, understanding the gesture.

After a short drive, Clarke and her mother are standing outside a quaint Brownstone in Brooklyn. “Oh, this is nice,” Clarke’s mom says. “Let’s go.” And she opens the car door.

“Go where?” Clarke asks with a terrified look that Abby has never seen on her before.

Abby sighs. “To see about a girl.”

Clarke refuses to get out of the car; she clings to the seatbelt for dear life, and if she could, she’d deploy the airbag just to hide her face. “Clarke,” Abby says, “your father and I did not raise a coward.” Abby gets out of the car and walks around to the passenger’s side but Clarke has already locked the door. Abby throws her arms up in frustration. It reminds her of Clarke’s first day of school. It took almost an hour to coax Clarke out from under the bed. And now Abby is banging on the window. “Clarke, open the door this instant,” she says. All the while Lexa is calmly standing a few feet away trying to figure out what exactly is going on. Abby sees Lexa out of the corner of her eye and she freezes, thinking that maybe Clarke was right, this was a very bad idea. 

“Fuck,” Clarke says, following Abby’s line of sight which leads directly to Lexa. Abby glares at her — she doesn’t approve of Clarke using profanity. 

Lexa isn’t quite sure what their end-goal is but her nosy neighbor is peering through the blinds so she decides to walk to Abby’s car, and gesture an invitation with her hand. As they walk into Lexa’s living room, Clarke muses that humiliation will probably be the cause of death listed on her death certificate because this entire thing is mortifying and death is looking like her only way out.

“Hello,” Abby says, “you must be Lexa. Clarke and I were in the neighborhood so we decided to stop by to thank you for for all of your hard work on Clarke’s case.” Lexa nods and looks over at Clarke, who is currently conducting an in-depth study of Lexa’s hardwood floors.

Abby rolls her eyes and elbows Clarke on her ribs. “Say hello to her,” she says out of the corner of her mouth.

“Hi Lexa,” Clarke says. She’s moved on from the hardwood floors to admiring her own pedicure.

“Well, now that that’s settled, I’m going to go run some errands,” Abby says, and practically sprints out of Lexa’s house, leaving the two of them sitting awkwardly on the sofa.

“Your mother is quite agile,” Lexa offers, after ten agonizing minutes of silence.

Clarke sighs. “I apologize for my Mom’s weirdness. She thinks that if, well, maybe you don’t hate me, you and I could possible be good together. Lexa's lips curve into what could possibly be a smile.


	2. Finn Lets Her Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke Griffen has lost her beloved, leaving their tiny family in turmoil, and soon there will even more problems.

The Charity Gala at the Metropolitan Museum of Art is something she's been looking forward to for months, she's even partisipated in the deciton-making process.  
It's in honor of her late father whom she adored, and because it's in his honor of her late father whom she adored,and because it's in his honor, Clarke want's it to perfect, no, she need it to be perfect.  
She needs it to be perfect because he believed in her and she want's the Gala to be worthy of his memory. Shrugs away the disappointment she feels she feels when her fiancé calls her and tell her he isn't to make  
to be able to make it back from Hong Kong in time to attend; the business deal he's brokering is too important but he promises he'll make it up to her.

Clarke doesn't say anything for several seconds, she just closes her eyes for several seconds, she just closes her eyes for a moment before telling him to do what he needs to do, and hangs up the phone. It hurts, but in the  
the end this isn't about Finn, it's about her dad. Her mother, as usual has cornered the the market on making things about her; Clarke its'n about to join her in doing so. She just continues focusing her energy on making this  
a great night, a night, a night in which everyone will be reminded of all his accomplishments, of his generosity, of what a great man he was.

On the night of the event all, eyes are on her. The gown she is wearing is lovely and elegant and those around her all comment that on this night, she certainly lives up to her nickname. "You look beautiful Princes" Bellamy tells her, and it's all she can do to suppress an eye roll  
and it's all she can do to suppress an eye roll an eye roll. She despises the moniker but her friends still insist on using it. She's certain she'll hear it throughout the entire the evening,  
especially since knows that Raven and Octavia, along with Jasper and the rest of her friends of her friends will make it a point to using use it often. Tonight, she will not let it bothered her,  
nor will she give a speech as her mother as her mother insisted on doing; Clarke will quietly look around at all the people who trudged thorough the snow wearing their tuxedos and gowns, in honor of Jake Griffin and  
it will be a good night.

By ten'o clock the Gala is in full swing. Champaign flows freely and all those in attendance are reminiscing about Jake Griffin. Everyone seems to have a favorite story about him; it warms her heart but also brakes her heart.  
"You weren't old dad, you" she whispers, you weren't whispers to him.

Not willing to shed tears in front of the partygoers, walks to the powder room and locks the door. She stays there for several minutes, doing her best to keep it together, be courageous and strong like he taught  
her to be. When she's finally able to keep the tears at bay, she starts toward the door, but she stops when she hears voices, angry voices. it's two men, she decides or maybe three. She holds her breath what feels  
like a long time and the the shouting between the men stops. She waits for what she feels is a prudent amount of time before stepping into the hallway; when the gunshots ring and she releases a gasp, the man whit the gun turns around

 

The man holding the gun, turns around and sees her standing there, looking directly at him. Her mouth is slight open and she's backing away from him. "Bad timing" he grits between his teeth. And then he looks down  
at the two bodies on the floor.  
bodies on the floor. Clarke can see it on his face—she's about to join the two men whom she is fairly certain are already dead. Her mouth is slight open and she's baking away from him. "Bad timing" he grits between  
his teeth with his finger about to sqeeze the trigger. But Clarke knows this isn't her night to die; she flings a nearby vase at him and pulls on the fire alarm, slowing her assailant just enough for one of the security guards to run to her aid. the man with  
the gun, looks back at her over his shouldered takes a shot at her but hits the guard instead. By then there are police officers everywhere but her assailant is nower to be found.


	3. The Gala

The Charity Gala at the Metropolitan Museum of Art is something she’s been looking forward to for months, she’s even participated in the decision making process. It’s in honor of her late father whom she adored, and because it’s in his honor, Clarke wants it to be perfect, no, she needs it to be perfect. She needs it to be perfect because he believed in her and she wants the gala to be worthy of his memory. She shrugs away the disappointment she feels when her fiancé calls her to tell her he isn’t going to be able to make it back from Hong Kong in time to attend; the business deal he’s brokering is too important but he promises he’ll make it up to her.

Clarke doesn’t say anything for several seconds, she just closes her eyes for a moment before telling him to do what he needs to do, and she hangs up the phone. It hurts but in the end this isn’t about Finn, it’s about her dad. Her mother, as usual, has already cornered the market on making things about her; Clarke isn’t about to join her in doing so. She just continues focusing her energy on making this a great night, a night in which everyone will be reminded of all his accomplishments, of his generosity, of what a great man he was.

 

On the night of the event, all eyes are on her. The gown she’s wearing is lovely and elegant and those around her all comment that on this night, she most certainly lives up to her nickname. “You look beautiful, Princess,” Bellamy tells her, and it’s all she can do to suppress an eye roll. She despises the moniker but her friends still insist on using it. She’s certain she’ll hear it throughout the entire evening, especially since she knows that Raven and Octavia, along with Jasper and the rest of her friends will make a point of using it often. Tonight, she will not let it bother her, nor will she give a speech as her mother has insisted on doing; Clarke will quietly look around at all of the people who trudged through the snow wearing their tuxedos and gowns in honor of Jake Griffin and it will be a good night.

By ten o’clock the gala is in full swing. Champagne flows freely and all of those in attendance are reminiscing about Jake Griffin. Everyone seems to have a favorite story about him; it warms Clarke’s heart but it also breaks her heart. “You weren’t old, dad,” she whispers, to him. “You weren’t old.” 

Not willing to shed tears in front of the partygoers, she walks into the powder room and locks the door. She stays there for several minutes, doing her best to keep it together, to be courageous and strong like he had taught her to be. When she’s finally able to keep the tears at bay, she starts toward the door, but she stops when she hears voices, angry voices. It’s two men, she decides, or maybe three. She holds her breath for what feels like a long time and the shouting between the men stops. She waits for what she feels is a prudent amount of time before stepping out into the hallway; that’s when the gunshots ring and she releases a loud gasp. The man holding the gun turns around and sees her standing there, looking directly at him, and then he looks down at the two bodies on the floor. Clarke can see it on his face — she’s about to join the two men whom she’s fairly certain are already dead. Her mouth is slightly open and she’s backing away from him. “Bad timing,” he grits between his teeth, with his finger about to squeeze the trigger. But Clarke knows this isn’t her night to die; she flings a nearby vase at him and pulls on the fire alarm, slowing down her assailant just enough for one of the security guards to run to her aid. The man with the gun, looks back at her over his shoulder and takes a shot at her but he hits the guard instead. By then there are police officers everywhere but her assailant is nowhere to be found.

Several officers, and one whose uniform indicates he’s a captain, takes her into one of the rooms reserved for the security personnel. Her hands are shaking but she keeps her composure. They are asking her questions, so many questions; she’s overwhelmed by all of the voices around her. And for once, she’s glad to see her mother entering the room — with her lawyer in tow — her father’s best friend, the man who her mother started sleeping with six months after her dad died. “My client has just been through a traumatic experience, she’s in no condition to answer these questions. I’ll have one of several judges currently attending this function file an injunction if you don’t desist.” 

“No,” Clarke says, “I just need to have a drink of water.” An officer promptly hands her a glass; she swallows it in a single gulp and takes a deep breath.”

“Clarke, you don’t have to do this,” her mother says.

“Yes I do,” she says, looking directly at her mother. “This night was for dad.”

Her mother has seen that steely look in her eyes thousands of times; she’s never once succeeded at changing her daughter’s mind when she has that look.

“Can I just talk to one person?” she asks the officers. “This,” she says, gesturing with her hands, “is too much for me right now.”

The man wearing the captain’s uniform picks up the phone and says, “Get Detective Woodward here ASAP.”

The detective arrives within minutes, and promptly clears the room. “Ms. Griffin, I’m Detective Woodward, I’m going to be handling this case.” The detective’s voice is calming and soothing, and Clarke is grateful for that voice, because she can’t handle anymore noise right now. “I need to ask you some questions while the events of the evening are still fresh in your mind. If you prefer, we can do this back at the station. I just want you to feel safe and comfortable, which I realize isn’t easy under the circumstances.”

“Trust me, it’s fresh,” she says, and the detective’s eyes soften.

“For as best as you can, walk me through your evening,” Woodward says.

“Well, I arrived at seven to make certain the waitstaff had everything they needed. The gala was in honor of my late father so I wanted everything to go smoothly, and it did until I heard male voices arguing.”

“And where were you when you heard them arguing?” the detective asks, jotting down Clarke’s responses in a notepad.

Clarke feels a little embarrassed by the question. “I was in the restroom — crying. I adored my dad. I did my best to be strong but at one point I broke down.” The detective swallows and nods.

“It’s understandable,” the detective says, “losing a loved one is never easy. Were you able to hear what they were saying?” 

“One of them sounded angry but there was music in the background so I couldn’t make out the words.” Clarke sighs, and covers her eyes with her hands.

“Are you all right, Ms. Griffin?” The detective’s hand goes to Clarke’s shoulder and it feels like it belongs there, keeping Clarke steady and calm.

Clarke nods.

“I know this is a long shot considering the circumstances, but do you think you would be able to describe your assailant?”

Clarke looks up with a sad smirk on her face. “Can I have a pencil and a sheet of paper, please?”

“Of course.” Within minutes Clarke produces a sketch that the detective suspects would look right at home hanging in the walls of the museum.

“That’s,” the detective says, wide-eyed, with parted lips, “impressive.”

“Much to my mother’s chagrin, I’m an artist,” Clarke says with a shrug.

“Yeah, I got that,” the detective says. “Please give me a few minutes. I’m going to send your sketch to the station, and run it through our database.”

When the detective returns, Clarke is on her cell phone. “Raven, I’m fine. Are you guys okay? Good, tell everyone I’m all right.” She looks up at the detective who is sitting across from Clarke waiting for her to finish her call. “I have to go,” Clarke says,” the detective is waiting for me. I love you guys, too,” she says to the various people on the other end of the phone. The detective gazes at Clarke for several seconds but doesn’t say a word; Clarke knows it must be bad. 

“You were at the wrong place at the wrong time, Ms. Griffin.”

“Call me Clarke, please. Ms. Griffin sounds like some sort of schoolmarm.”

The detective gives her a small smile. “I think Clarke Griffin has a nice ring to it; call me Lexa,” the detective says, hoping it will make Clarke feel more at ease.

“Nice to meet you, Lexa. Now then, should I be worried?” She furrows her brow and waits for a response.

Lexa purses her lips searching for the right words, but there are no right words for the situation Clarke is in. “Give me a few minutes, Clarke, I have to make a couple of calls.” Clarke shrugs her shoulders and waits. 

“Come on, I’m taking you home,” the detective tells Clarke when she walks back into the room. She welcomes the news but her instincts tell her there’s something Lexa isn’t telling her.

Clarke’s home turns out to be prime real estate on the Upper East Side, overlooking the park. As they walk into the building, Lexa keeps one hand on her gun and the other on the small of Clarke’s back. When they reach Clarke’s floor, two officers are already standing in the hallway and two other officers are in the foyer. “Is it just me, or is this a bit much?” Clarke asks, looking up at Lexa.

Lexa doesn’t answer, instead she introduces Clarke to the officers. “Ms. Griffin, meet Officers Henson and Jones, they’ll stand guard in the hallway from 6:00PM to 12:00AM, Officers Reese is my cousin and best friend so I can assure you that he and Paterson will keep you safe. They will take over from 12:01AM to 6:00AM. The building’s security staff has already been informed that they are to be on high alert. No one, the detective says emphatically to the officers, “has access to Ms. Griffin’s floor without an ID.” The officers acknowledge the detective’s orders with a nod, and move to their assigned post.

Lexa walks through the apartment checking all the windows, doors, and closets. She hesitates for a moment when she finds herself staring at a closet filled with men’s clothing, but she quickly recovers. “Will your husband be coming home tonight?” Lexa asks.

“Fiancé,” she corrects her, “and no, he’s in Hong Kong, being a captain of industry or whatever.” The bitter tone in which she says it doesn’t escape Lexa. She’s a detective, connecting the dots is what she does. Clarke’s fiancé had gone on a business trip instead of attending the gala in her father’s honor. Lexa feels a surge of anger at the realization but quickly reminds herself that it’s none of her business. Still, she couldn’t help but mutter the word douchebag under her breath. Clarke’s fiancé wasn’t capable of protecting her heart but Lexa was sure as hell going to protect her life.

“Anya, meet Clarke Griffen, you are going to be shadowing her until we find her would-be assailants.

Anya pursed her lips, and said, Roger that.

As if on cue, Clarke’s phone rings. She sighs when she looks at the caller ID. “Finn, I can’t talk right now. My mother had no business calling you. No,” she says. “We’ll talk when you get back.” She hangs up the phone without saying goodbye. She sees a mixture of sadness and anger is Clarke’s eyes; Lexa feels like punching this Finn character.

Lexa doesn’t say anything, she just goes out to the balcony. When she comes back inside, she pulls out a high-powered riffle from her bag and looks through the scope. “Clarke, I need you to stay away from the balcony, I want you nowhere near it.” she says, still looking through the scope.

Clarke follows Lexa’s line of sight. “Yeah, I guess going out for fresh air would be a bad idea,” she says, knowing she’d be an easy target.

Lexa puts down the riffle and thinks for a moment, debating weather or not what she’s about to say is a good idea. This wasn’t the plan, but Lexa makes a decision. “I’m going to stay with you tonight.”

Clarke smirks. “No complaints here. It’s not everyday that I get to sleep with a detective that’s hotter than most supermodels.” Lexa tips her head but doesn’t say anything — her blushing cheeks, however, speak volumes. “Wow, that was so inappropriate of me,” Clarke says with a grin on her face. “But in my defense,” she says, “my stress response is flirting, weird, I know.” The three glasses of wine she’d drank earlier to calm herself, were probably the cause of her loose tongue; she tells the detective as much.

Lexa chuckles and shakes her head. “Which of these is your bedroom?” Lexa asks.

“Now we’re talking,” Clarke say. “Yikes, I did it again, didn’t I?”

“You, Clarke Griffin, are quite a handful,” Lexa says, doing her best to give Clarke a stern look. “I need you to take this seriously. I didn’t want to discuss this with you tonight but I think maybe it’s good idea to get it out of the way.” She looks into Clarke’s eyes, and says, “What you witnessed tonight was a professional hit, Clarke, not some random crime. Had you not walked out of the restroom when you did, the shooter would have left the scene of the crime without a care in the world, but now,” she says, pausing for several seconds, “he needs to clean up. You saw his face, that makes you a liability.”

“So you’re saying that this guy may try to kill me?” she asks, wrapping her arms around her middle.

Lexa guides Clarke to the sofa and sits beside her. “He’s going to try, but I’m going to stop him. I need you to trust me, Clarke. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you. Now go to bed, I’ll be right outside your door, I promise I won’t leave you.”

Clarke leans in and kisses her on the cheek; Lexa blushes furiously. “Are all NYPD detectives as sweet as you are?”

“Stress response, again?” Lexa asks, still feeling the ghost of Clarke’s kiss on her cheek.

“No, an honest question,” she says, disappearing into the bedroom before Lexa can say anything. Lexa takes off her jacket and positions a chair in such a way, that she can easily look into every room but she focuses on Clarke’s room, watching her sleep through the slightly ajar bedroom door. At around four in the morning, Lexa hears Clarke awaken with a start; she rushes into the bedroom an kneels beside the bed. “It’s okay,” she says, “you’re safe. Go back to sleep.”

“Lexa,” Clarke says, a few hours later, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, squinting at the impossibly bright sunlight that now filters into her bedroom. “You were up all night?” Lexa nods in response. Clarke sits up on the bed taking in the sight of Lexa without her jacket on, leaning forward to trace her fingers over the tribal tattoo on Lexa’s back, which is instantly covered with goose bumps at the contact. Clarke sighs. “Jeez,” she says, “hotness overload before I’m even fully awake. I could really get used to this.”

Lexa shakes her head. “You’re incorrigible.” She picks up her jacket and looks around the apartment for a couple of minutes. “I’ll see you later.”

Clarke immediately jumps out of bed. “Where’re you going?” she asks, not realizing she’s in her panties and a tiny tank top that barely covers her navel. Lexa, however, definitely notices, and by the look on her face, she’s enjoying the view.

“Home,” Lexa says, “I have to shower and change before going to the precinct. Our killer isn’t going to catch himself.” Clarke’s eyebrows are tightly kneaded. “My guys are right outside the door,” she says in an effort to reassure her. Lexa jots down her cell phone number and hands it Clarke. “If you can’t reach me at the precinct, call my cell.”

Clarke wraps her arms around her and kisses her on the cheek again. “Thank you for being so good to me.”

“You just like kissing me,” Lexa teases with a smile on her face as she walks out the door. Having that sort of exchange while on the job is uncharted territory for Lexa, but she reasons that Clarke is vulnerable on many levels right now, and she need to feel close to someone. Lexa is willing to be that someone. When Clarke realizes that the entire exchanged occurred while she was still in her underwear, her palm meets her forehead.

After Lexa is relieved by an officer, Clarke decides to put her time in captivity to good use. She pulls out her easel from the closet with the intention of touching up a painting that’s almost finished, and just as she’s about to set it up on the balcony, she remembers Lexa’s admonishment about staying away from the balcony. She feels a tinge of annoyance for a second, but then she smiles at the mere thought of Lexa. She chuckles at this ridiculously intense crush she’s developed on Lexa, and although she knows it’s harmless, Finn crosses her mind for a moment and she feels a twinge of guilt. “Might as well put her on paper,” she says to herself, in an effort to get Lexa out of her system.

By the time she hears Lexa’s talking to the officers on the other side of the door, she’s long since finished a drawing she plans on presenting to Lexa for being so kind to her. “Hey,” she says, as she opens the door. “How was your day?”

“Good, thanks to your amazing sketch, we’re close to ID-ing our guy, and I took the liberty of picking up dinner. I hope that wasn’t presumptuous of me.” Lexa’s cheeks, once again are betraying her, but Clarke is kind enough to not mention it.

“You’re a life saver, I’m starving.” She watch as Lexa places the bags on the kitchen counter, and opens the cupboards.

“Here, I’ll take care of it,” Clarke says, “you must be exhausted so you don’t have to babysit me tonight. I’ll be fine. Don’t get me wrong, I love having you here, I just don’t want you to have to alter your life because of me. I’m sure someone is waiting for you at home.”

“You’re right, someone is waiting for me.” The smile on Clarke’s face fades a bit. “My cat, although she’s quite self-sufficient.”

Clarke grins. “Oh please don’t tell me that the hotness that is you is still on the market. I’m not buying that for a second, Woodward.”

“You really are a flirt,” Lexa says shaking her head, “and don’t give me that stress response nonsense. I’ve totally got your number, Griffin.”

“You’re welcome to dial it any time, in fact, you can put it on speed dial.”

“Incorrigible,” Lexa says, shaking her head again. “Lets eat before the food get cold.”

Dinner involves a lot of teasing and laughter, but all the while, Lexa’s eyes scan the apartment. Clarke notices that she’s doing it and tries to decide whether or not she should mention it. In the end, she asks, “Are you always this intense?”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No, not at all,” Clarke says, “It’s pretty sexy, as are all things Lexa.”

Lexa rolls her eye. “Definitely incorrigible.” Clarke laughs and gives her a gentle shove.

“Look,” Clarke says putting down her fork down for a moment with a smirk on her face, “I’ve watched plenty of movies, detectives are supposed to be middle aged men with horrible ties, and bad combovers, so sue me if I’m a bit thrown off by you.”

Lexa laughs. “Yeah, I get that a lot.” They eat the rest of their dinner in a comfortable silence. Clarke looks up at Lexa from time to time trying to discern what she’s thinking, but decides Lexa could probably have a very successful career as a poker player; she gives absolutely nothing away.

Clarke starts to pick up the dishes, but Lexa gently takes hold of her wrist caressing it with her thumb for a second, and shaking her head no. The feel of Lexa’s fingers around her wrist reminds Clarke that Finn has been away for almost six weeks, and even before he’d left, they’d been fighting so she can’t even remember the last time someone, anyone has touched her in a way that felt remotely intimate. She feels her body responding to Lexa’s touch and she swallows hard, taking a step away from Lexa. Flirting is one thing but she’d never forgive herself if she were to cross that line. All the while, she can see Lexa’s breathing quicken, and she’s grateful when the detective finally turns around and walks into the kitchen placing the dishes in the sink. Lexa carefully washes each plate as if it were a hand grenade. Clarke smirks, realizing that Lexa is even more flustered than she is. 

“Did you always want to have a career in law enforcement?” Clarke asks after Lexa walks back into the living room. It’s her best effort at shifting the tension in the room. “Was it like your childhood dream?”

“No, it wasn’t,” Lexa says, still struggling to regain her composure. “When I was kid, I wanted to be an architect. I loved the idea of building things, for people filling spaces that I conjured up in my imagination. Yeah, I guess that was my dream.”

“And what changed your mind?” Clarke asks. “You strike me as a very determined person, so I can’t quite picture you giving up on your dream.”

Lexa walks over to the window, before answering. “When I was sixteen-years-old, someone I loved dearly was the victim of an unspeakably violent crime. I was lost in my own grief for a while, but then I realized that I didn’t want anyone to feel what I felt when I lost her so I decided to save people.”

“I guess both our lives were affected by the loss of a loved one. Losing my dad was devastating. He was my hero and my best friend. When I was kid I tried so hard please my mother — for my dad’s sake, mostly but eventually I gave up trying. She wanted a little mini-me to follow in her footsteps so I actually applied to med school to make her happy — and me miserable. The last time I spoke to my dad it was as if he knew our time together was almost over. He called me into the den and told me that I had to have the courage to be my own person, to follow my dream. He died two day later. I quit med school decided to follow my passion.”

Lexa’s entire demeanor changes when she sees tears streaking Clarke’s cheeks. “Hey,” she says, pulling Clarke into her arms. “I’m here, okay?” She pulls Clarke even closer and kisses her temple, holding her there for a long moment, marveling at how perfectly Clarke fits in her arms, and before she even realizes it’s happening she’s kissing Clarke. The kiss is so soft and gentle that Clarke’s heart feels like it’ll shatter to pieces if their lips ever part but Lexa quickly pulls away.

“I shouldn’t of done that,” she says, rising to her feet and backing away from Clarke. “I’m here to protect you, Clarke. If I think with my heart, and not with my head, you could end up dead. I can let that happen.” She’s holding her head in her hands, unable to meet Clarke’s gaze. This has never happened to Lexa before. She’s always been able to keep her emotions in check, but Clarke topples all her defenses. 

“Lexa, wait,” Clarke says, “This is totally on me. I’ve been hitting on you constantly.”

“Maybe you’d be better off with another detective,” Lexa says, looking down at her boots.

“I feel safe with you,” Clarke says, “I can be a grownup, I really can. Just don’t leave me, please. I consider you a friend, Lexa.”

Lexa can’t bear that pleading look in Clarke eyes a moment longer. “You don’t have to change anything about yourself; I’m the one who has to practice better lip-management,” Lexa says, gazing at Clarke in the hopes of seeing a smile on her face, and seconds later, there it is. Clarke doesn’t mention that she feels as if her heart is doing somersaults in her chest. And Lexa doesn’t tell Clarke that she can’t remember the last time she was even remotely attracted enough to someone to consider kissing them.

“Oh,” Clarke says, suddenly jumping to her feet. She’s grinning like a five-year-old on Christmas morning. “I have something for you; hopefully you won’t hate it, but you have to close your eyes,” she says emphatically.

“If my eyes are closed, I can’t see it.”

“Ha, ha, very funny. I’ll tell you when you can open them.” She takes a deep breath, and says, “Okay, you can open your eyes now.”

Lexa’s eyes open wide and she looks over at Clarke. “You drew this?” she asks.

Clarke looks up at the ceiling and shakes her head. “No, I outsourced it to some guy in India,” she says, giving Lexa a shove. “Of course, I drew it, you big dork. It’s my way of thanking you for being, well, you.”

Lexa stares at the drawing, and then she turns her attention to Clarke. “It’s beautiful,” Lexa says. “This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me, and you’re the most talented person I’ve ever met in person.” She gives Clarke a hug, making sure to practice lip-management.

Lexa’s phone rings. “I’m on my way,” she says, “I want the building sealed off, no one get in until I say the word.” She turns to face Clarke, and says, “We’ve got eyes on our guy, Clarke, building security is on full alert and I have ten plain clothed officer around the perimeter, along with the rest of my guys. Stay away from the balcony,” she says, gripping Clarke’s upper arms.

Clarke wraps her arms around her as soon as Lexa releases her grip, and she pull her into a kiss. Lexa grins. “Poor lip-management, Griffin, I may have to write you up.”

“Be safe,” Clarke says, as Lexa walks out the door and another detective takes her place.

Clarke’s phone rings, and she rolls her eyes when she sees the caller ID. “Finn, this isn’t a good time. The police just sealed off the building. Maybe if you would have told me you were flying in today, I could have warned you.”

“I flew back to protect you, Princess,” he says with a sappy look on his face. “Did you think I’d leave my girl at the mercy of the NYPD?”

“Finn, I can’t do this right now. People are risking their lives to keep me safe.”

“Don’t worry Princess, I’m on my way.”

Clarke sighs. The last thing she needs is Finn trying to play hero. She paces around the apartment incessantly, hoping against hope that Lexa will call her. The sun has already set, and she still hasn’t heard a word from her. “No news is good news,” she tells herself over and over like a mantra.

“Detective Woodward is a pro, Ms. Griffin, everything is going to be fine.” She nods and give’s him a small smile.

“Our guy’s making is his move,” Lexa says over her police radio. “I want five of you on the on the roof — east side of the building. If you have a clean shot take it. This guy is armed and dangerous. We’re dealing with a professional killer,” she says. Lexa is on the rooftop of the building across the street; from that vantage point, she can see the perp’s every move and she’s ready to take the shot herself if need be, but them she get that sensation in her gut that she’s learned to trust — the hard way. She looks through the scope of her riffle again, this time peering into Clarke’s apartment; even from that distance she can tell that there’s been some sort of struggle, and the sliding glass door that leads to the balcony is shattered, “Clarke,” she says and she takes off running at full speed. She’s got her riffle in one hand and her police radio in her back pocket. Her coworker’s claim that she could easily be a world class sprinter if she wanted to, proves to be true. She manages to reach Clarke’s apartment in record speed.

The moment she reaches the apartment her eyes search for Clarke, and when she spots her, she releases a sigh of relief and wraps her arms around her. Clarke clings to her for dear life. “I thought something horrible happened to you,” Lexa says, resting her forehead on Clarke’s.

It takes Lexa a few seconds to assess the situation. She looks over at the shattered glass door, and then at the man sprawled on the floor, struggling to rise to his feet. “Get your fucking hands off me,” he says, giving Lexa a hard shove.

“Oh, you are so going to regret doing that,” Lexa says in what sound every bit like a snarl. With a slight tip of Lexa’s head, one of the officers slaps a pair of hand coughs on him and read’s him his right.

“What the hell do you think your doing?” Finn says, trying to elbow his way out of the officer’s grip. “Do you even know who I am? When my lawyers get’s through with you you’ll be lucky to get a job as a crossing guard. Oh, and when the fuck do I get to make my one phone call?” he demands.

“Lexa please,” Clarke says, “you can’t arrest Finn.” She’s looking up at Lexa with those big blue eyes and gripping her upper arm. Lexa rolls her eyes, realizing that it’s Clarke’s douchebag fiancé. 

“The hell I can’t? She says, in a low menacing tone. “Had it not been for this idiot, your life wouldn’t be in danger right now. I had a clean shot, Clarke. This whole thing would have been over, you’d be save.” Lexa walks away, and addresses one of her officers. “How the hell did he even get in here.”

“One of the neighbors left his door unlocked. This moron, climbed into Ms. Griffin’s balcony and smashed the glass door.” 

“Good,” Lexa says, glaring at Finn, “add breaking and entering to the charges.” 

With two officers flanking him, Finn gets dragged out of the building and placed in a patrol car. “Lexa please, Finn did something stupid, I know, but he did it for me, to protect me.”

“He could have gotten you killed,” Lexa says, clenching her fists at her side.

“You can’t just arrest everyone who makes a stupid decision. He’s not a criminal for god’s sake.”

Lexa purses her lips and nods. “So in your opinion, assaulting an officer, resisting arrest, obstruction of justice, and breaking and entering aren’t crimes?” She allows her arms to hang at her sides waiting for Clarke to say something, but really, what can she say — aside from making excuses for her fiancé.

“Finn may have his faults but what you’re doing is excessive. I though we were friends, Lexa.” Lexa can’t even look at her after the words leave her lips. Clarke regrets saying them but she knows she can’t take them back, not after being confronted with the heart breaking look on Lexa’s face.

Making excuses for Finn’s erratic behavior, and lies had long since become a habit. She’s even managed to rationalize Finn’s infidelities, doing her best to convince herself that once they got married everything would work out. In truth, Clarke isn’t even sure if she’s still in love him but she doesn’t know what would become of Finn if she were to walk away from him.

Lexa disappears into the hallway and when she returns, she say, “Goodbye Clarke, Detective Cooper is taking over your case.” With that, Lexa was gone, leaving her replacement awkwardly standing in Clarke’s living room.

Finn’s lawyers gets his charges reduced to what amounts to a slap on the wrist and three weeks after Lexa walked out of Clarke’s life, she receives a call from the police department informing her that there was a suspect in custody. Lexa was credited with collaring Clarke’s assailant. Clarke sighed; Lexa had never stopped trying to keep her safe. They didn’t see each other until the trial began, three months later. It was all Clarke could do to take her eyes off Lexa. She is still as impossibly beautiful as Clarke remembered. Clarke’s closest friends were all in attendance to offer their support — with the exception of Finn whom she had banned from the proceedings. Clarke couldn’t help but look at Lexa over her shoulder, giving Lexa a small smile. Lexa acknowledged her with a nod. 

“Hey, Casanova,” her friend Octavia says, “What’s with the forlorn stares at Lexa?”

“Shut up,” Clarke says, only to whip her head around, and ask, “You know her?”

“Yeah, she goes to my gym, and don’t even try to tell me that’s were your lazy ass met her.

“She’s the detective who worked my case. Are you two close?”

“Not really, I did’t even know she was a cop.”

“Detective,” Clarke corrects her with a bit too much zeal.

Octavia grins. “Hey Raven,” Octavia whispers to Raven, “Look who’s crushing on Lexa.”

“Who’s Lexa?” Raven asks.

Octavia rolls her eyes. “That girl from the gym. The one with the hair, and the eyes, and the banging body,” she says, gesturing wildly with her hands.

“Ah, yes, the goddess who has on many occasions led me to question my own sexuality.”

“Yep, that’s the one.” 

“Will you two put a lid on it, the trial’s about to begin,” Clarke says.

“What’d I miss?” Bellamy asked, taking a seat next to his younger sister Octavia.”

“Clarke want’s to bang Lexa from the gym,” she says matter factly.

“Can I watch?” he asks, earning himself a hard elbow to his ribs.

“You don’t even know her,” Clarke points out.

“Details,” he offers with a shrug.

“I hate every single one of you,” Clarke says.

“No you don’t, you’re just mad because I busted you crushing on Lexa.” 

“Where’s Finn?” Balmy asks Clarke. 

“I banned him from coming within ten miles of the courthouse.” 

“Smart move, he’d probably make an ass of himself again.”

Just as Clarke is about to say something, the Judge enters the courtroom and the trial begins. Both sides present their evidence and question the witnesses. By late afternoon, the jury deliberates. It takes them little over an hour to come to a unanimous guilty verdict. 

Clarke releases a sigh of relief, and heads out of the courtroom, only to find herself standing inches away from Lexa for the first time in months, and god, she look beautiful. For a moment, it feels as if time is standing still — mostly because Clarke’s friend are practically frozen in time, hanging on Lexa and Clarke’s every word. Clarke would love to smack every one of them on the back of their heads, but the place is crawling with cops, one of them being Lexa. 

“I’m glad this ordeal is finally over for you,” Lexa says.

“Thanks to you,” Clarke says, trying her best to convince herself that she can’t possibly be responsible for the sadness in Lexa’s eyes.

Lexa shakes her head. “My entire team moved heaven and earth to keep you safe.”

“And yet you were the one who brought him in. Thank you for that,” she says, leaning in and kissing Lexa on the cheek, lingering more than necessary.

Clarke’s friends don’t move a muscle until she rolls her eyes and loudly clears her throat, but even then, then they mostly run there fingers through their own hair — except for Lincoln who keeps his head shaven. 

Lexa pulls Clarke into an embrace, pressing her nose to Clarke’s hair for a second, and then she does that sexy slow-motion blinking thing that Clarke has practiced in front of her bathroom mirror at least a thousand times but for the life of her, she still can’t get it right. “Take care of yourself, Clarke,” Lexa says.

Clarke looks into Lexa’s eyes for a long moment and says, “I liked it better when you were taking care of me,” Clarke says with a sad smile on her face.

“So did I, Clarke, so did I.” And with that, Lexa walks out of the life for a second time.

“Holy shit,” Bellamy says, “that was like watching the death of Doctor fucking Zhivago — in slow motion —on repeat — for days. You bitches almost had me in tears. What with all the longing and despair.” 

“Preach,” Raven says, waving her arms in the air.

“Clarke, you’re a dumb ass. That girl’s in freaking in love with you,” Octavia tell her.

“You do know Finn and I are engaged, right?”

“Yeah, well, you can do better. Trust me, I know. The one thing you can count on Finn doing is letting you down, and ripping your heart out, and lets not forget the possibility of an STD.” They all know Raven is speaking out of experience. Finn had been Raven’s first love; it took her years to finally accept that Finn had never loved her.

Bellamy is chewing on his lower lip, clearly experiencing some sort of moral dilemma — either that or he’s severely constipated. “Maybe you do deserve better than Finn will ever give you,” he say, in what can only be describe as an extreme departure from his evangelical devotion to his bros-before-hos creed. 

Octavia narrows her eyes and grabs him by the collar. “Bellamy Blake,” she says, calling him by his full name as she always does when she thinks he’s hiding something from her.

He lifts his arms in surrender and takes a step back from his rather terrifying little sister. “I don’t know anything,” he says.

“Bell,” she says in that menacing tone that makes him feel as if he’s about to wet his pants. “Clarke is practically family. If you know something that can hurt Clarke and you don’t tell me, I swear I’ll never forgive you.”

“Octavia,” he whines, and soon cracks under his sister’s glare.

In the end, he shrugs and says, “I know Hong Kong isn’t in Thailand.”

Clarke looks up and shakes her head. “I’m such a fucking idiot,” she says. “He begged me to forgive him, when I found those pictures of him fucking that girl in Thailand. He swore it was a one time thing.”

“No, you’re not an idiot,” Raven says, putting her arms around Clarke’s shoulder. “You fell for his lies, just like I did.”

“Yeah, except you were smart enough to cut your losses. I wasted eight years of my life on him.”

Clarke sighs. “Guys, I need be alone for a while.” Here friends exchange concerned glances, but give her the space she needs. Clarke sits on one of the benches outside of the courtroom and after a few minutes, she feels an arm around her shoulder. She allows herself think that maybe it’s Lexa’s arm, but she recognizes her mother’s perfume and she slumps her shoulders.

“She’s very pretty,” Clarke’s mother says, and Clarke nods in agreement. She had been at the back of the courtroom the entire time. “Tell me about her,” she says, and Clarke looks up at her without a trace of anger on her face for the first time in years.

“She’s amazing,” Clarke says, “but I blew it. I’ll probably never see her again.”

Abby sighs. “When your father and I were around your age, we broke up for almost a year.”

“Why?” she asked, “You and Dad were inseparable.”

She thinks for almost a full minute before answering. “Because you and I are actually a lot alike.”

Clarke shoots her a skeptical look. “We lose sight of the forest for trees, and then we regret it. We don’t pick our battles very well, so we whine up hurting ourselves and the people we love.

“Your father, on the other hand, was masterful at it. That’t why our marriage lasted as long as it did. He focused on the big picture. Everything else is details, he’d say, and he was right. You and I aren’t very good at that, hence we’re constantly at each other’s throat.”

Clarke nods contemplatively and turn her body so that they are facing each other. “How could take up with someone else so soon after Dad died — and with his best friend, no less?” Clarke held back angry tears.

“Because I wanted to die,” she says honestly. “Your father was my life. I didn’t know how to live without him.” She paused for a long moment. “There are still days when I sit in front of the door waiting for him to come home.” Clarke’s head snaps up, realizing for the first time that she had been so caught up in her own anger, that she didn’t notice that her mother had been hanging by a thread, just as she had. For the first time, in years, Clarke hugs her mother and tells her she loves her.

Abby reaches for Clarke’s hand and pulls her to her feet. “Now let’s go find that girl of yours,” Abby says.

“What do you mean?” Clarke asks.

“I mean that now that that despicable boy is finally out of your life — thank god, by the way — you can tell that beautiful detective of yours how you feel about her.”

“I thought you loved Finn.” Clarke says, furrowing her brow. Abby’s disdain for Finn is definitely a surprise.

“Hardly,” Abby says, “but I love you. Your father and I had always agreed to support you and to allow you make your own mistakes. Now let’s go.”

“Mom, are you crazy? We can’t just show up at Lexa’s door and demand that she love me.”

“Sure we can,” Abby says,” practically dragging Clarke into the car.

“How do you even know where she lives?”

“I looked her up on Facebook.”

“You Facebook-stalked Lexa?” Clarke asks with a horrified look on her face. “That’s embarrassing and completely inappropriate.”

“Yeah well, that’s what mother’s do.”

“I’m not talking to you,” Clarke says, shifting her body so that she doesn’t have to look at her. After a few minutes Clarke asks, “Why did you pressure me so much about the med school thing? That didn’t feel very supportive,” she says, raising an accusatory eye brow.

Abby tips her head, waiting for the stoplight to change. “From the day I found out that I was carrying a little girl, I envisioned you and I in the hospital doing our rounds together. It was a hard dream to let go,” she admits. “You and I had absolutely nothing in common, Clarke. I just wanted to connect with you.” Clarke doesn’t say anything, she just leans over so that their shoulders are touching. Abby smiles, understanding the gesture.

After a short drive, Clarke and her mother are standing outside a quaint Brownstone in Brooklyn. “Oh, this is nice,” Clarke’s mom says. “Let’s go.” And she opens the car door.

“Go where?” Clarke asks with a terrified look that Abby has never seen on her before.

Abby sighs. “To see about a girl.”

Clarke refuses to get out of the car; she clings to the seatbelt for dear life, and if she could, she’d deploy the airbag just to hide her face. “Clarke,” Abby says, “your father and I did not raise a coward.” Abby gets out of the car and walks around to the passenger’s side but Clarke has already locked the door. Abby throws her arms up in frustration. It reminds her of Clarke’s first day of school. It took almost an hour to coax Clarke out from under the bed. And now Abby is banging on the window. “Clarke, open the door this instant,” she says. All the while Lexa is calmly standing a few feet away trying to figure out what exactly is going on. Abby sees Lexa out of the corner of her eye and she freezes, thinking that maybe Clarke was right, this was a very bad idea. 

“Fuck,” Clarke says, following Abby’s line of sight which leads directly to Lexa. Abby glares at her — she doesn’t approve of Clarke using profanity. 

Lexa isn’t quite sure what their end-goal is but her nosy neighbor is peering through the blinds so she decides to walk to Abby’s car, and gesture an invitation with her hand. As they walk into Lexa’s living room, Clarke muses that humiliation will probably be the cause of death listed on her death certificate because this entire thing is mortifying and death is looking like her only way out.

“Hello,” Abby says, “you must be Lexa. Clarke and I were in the neighborhood so we decided to stop by to thank you for for all of your hard work on Clarke’s case.” Lexa nods and looks over at Clarke, who is currently conducting an in-depth study of Lexa’s hardwood floors.

Abby rolls her eyes and elbows Clarke on her ribs. “Say hello to her,” she says out of the corner of her mouth.

“Hi Lexa,” Clarke says. She’s moved on from the hardwood floors to admiring her own pedicure.

“Well, now that that’s settled, I’m going to go run some errands,” Abby says, and practically sprints out of Lexa’s house, leaving the two of them sitting awkwardly on the sofa.

“Your mother is quite agile,” Lexa offers, after ten agonizing minutes of silence.

Clarke sighs. “I apologize for my Mom’s weirdness. She thinks that if, well, maybe you don’t hate me, you and I could possible be good together.


End file.
